


Can You Not Hear The Secret Music?

by Toruviel



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Different Job, Composer Will Graham, Gen, Hannibal Lecter Being Hannibal Lecter, I'm trying for a Sassy Will, M/M, POV Hannibal Lecter, Sassy Will Graham, Will Graham Doesn't Need Help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15563712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toruviel/pseuds/Toruviel
Summary: In a world where Will Graham had chosen a  career that reflected the best of him, not the worst of someone else, Hannibal met an intriguing challenge in the most unlikely place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first work in Hannibal fandom and I own nothing but the plot, unfortunately. I hope to continue the story one day, but it's not my main project and I'm awful at finishing things, so please, don't hold your breath.
> 
> Big thanks to my beta, Princessleia9977, who is not part of Hannibal fandom but still helped me out. Thank you for looking it over and not being weirded out.

"I cannot believe you are here, Dr Lecter."

"A friend recommended it, most passionately. Besides, I've always been supportive of the arts and the rising artists. I would not wish to judge anything before witnessing it."

"I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed, Dr Lecter. Apparently, Graham's take on the classic diverges from the original to a most unfortunate degree."

"Well, _I_ have heard glowing reviews about his innovative and evocative scores."

"Time will tell, surely. And it is nearly time to take our seats, is it not? Pray forgive me, Andrea, Dominic."

"Oh- Of course."

"Find us after the performance, won't you? I'd love to hear your take on it."

"I shall do my best. Enjoy the night."

The lights dimmed shortly after. Hannibal joined the stragglers and took a place in the auditorium, among the creme de la crème of Baltimore's society, as it were. He blinked slowly, breathed deeply. Expelled the ugly and the crude. Opened himself to music.

The darkness fell. A moment of absolute silence, thick with anticipation. Then, the music began, subtly rising until it submerged him, taking over him completely. He let himself drown.

Time passed unnoticed until, eventually, the reality intruded. He emerged slowly, gradually, belatedly noticing the lights and half-empty stalls. Ah, the intermission. No matter. He had no mind to mingle with the rabble. Not while the echoes of the music still lived with him. He half-closed his eyes and awaited the second part of the performance.

It came, just as masterful, as _powerful,_ as the first act. The finale stole his breath, the force of it awaking an ache in his chest, behind his ribs. As the light returned and applause rose like a roar around him, he rose carefully, gingerly. He did not wish to spill even one note still lingering in him.

The mingling after lacked its usual lustre, his interlocutors drab, their faces almost paper-flat. He chatted and flattered and cut on autopilot, pure muscle memory. None of them could hold his attention, could measure against the surprising climax ringing through the halls of his memory palace.

"-to introduce Will Graham, the creator of today's musical. Hannibal, I don’t believe you have met?"

He surfaced, coming face to face with Felix Cambran, one of the Opera Board Members, and a stranger.

"No, I've not had the pleasure," he inclined his head, taking in Will Graham.

Younger than Hannibal, younger than he would have guessed, given the quality of his art. Dark, curly hair, light eyes, symmetrical features. A classical beauty. Well dressed. And indisputably talented.

Hannibal smiled.

"I have enjoyed your creation immeasurably. The music and the unexpected finale equally," he complimented, noting a surprising lack of eye contact. Curious. He rose his champagne glass in a small toast. "To breathe a new life into a well-known piece without corrupting its message is no small feat. My salutations."

Will Graham smiled and rose his own glass. His hands were a rough, solid construct, not the delicate palms of a socialite. He smelled of wool and dog, fresh body sweat and nerves. No body cologne and still no eye contact.

"Without changing its message?" Combran injected, rudely shattering the moment. "You are making me doubt we were listening to the same thing, Hannibal. No offence intended, Mr Graham, your piece was very good, but it’s hardly what one would expect, given the title and, well, its reputation. Wouldn’t you agree?"

"Denying expectations can be as difficult to achieve as exceeding them," Hannibal rebuffed gently. "To tell a tale of a monster preying on innocents and smitten by the righteous must be no more challenging then to describe a wheel. To give the monster agency and depth, beyond the crude desire for survival, to understand his motives… I certainly find it much more interesting."

"You would," Will Graham said, a curious note in his voice. He canted his head, eyes trained somewhere in the vicinity of Hannibal's ear.

"What makes you say that?"

"Your reputation in the psychological circles. And your hands. Violin or piano?"

"I play several instruments, harpsichord among them."

"Hannibal's real talent lies in the culinary arts, though," Combran interrupted yet again. "His dinner parties are legendary."

And Combran had never been invited for a reason.

"Everything can become art if viewed through proper lenses," he allowed, angling his body more obviously towards the young composer. "However, it is rare to be able to perceive beauty in butchery."

"Is it?" Will Graham arched one eyebrow, a quick smile sneaking through his lips. "One must merely understand that blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel our radiance. There's nothing more natural than change, more intuitive than evolving."

"Yes," he muttered after a few heartbeats, stuck anew. "Through fear of change is instinctual as well. Fear of death, the great unknown."

"Are you afraid of death, Dr Lecter?"

"No. Only of being wasted."

"Then you'd be a vampire's best friend, Hannibal," Combran injected from somewhere behind him, rather desperately. Truly, some people.

"Hardly," Will Graham scoffed. "Without the hunt, the challenge, what would be the _point_?"

"Some would say that there is never any point in murder."

"Would you?"

"No," he allowed a subtle smile, finally getting a glimpse into these blue eyes. "And neither would you, I do not think. Not with the surprising twist at the end of the second act."

"He didn't murder her."

"Did he not?"

The younger man looked startled, stricken, just for a second. Then he looked away, took a sip of the champagne. Composed himself.

"I am curious about your inspiration for the changes you have created," Hannibal probed, sensing a tender spot. "Is the story a mirror or a dream?"

"Not a nightmare? You ask curious questions, Dr Lecter," Will Graham smiled, now as calm and opaque as a dark lake. What monsters awaited in the depths?

"Are you going to sate my curiosity?"

"Not tonight, Dr Lecter. I must be leaving shortly."

"I'm throwing a small dinner party next weekend. I would be delighted to see you there," he invited, _decided_ on the spot. A week would be time enough to have everything prepared, if barely.

"To pick my brain?" Will Graham smiled again, this time showing his teeth. Hannibal was too charmed to mind.

"The only brain on display will be Bheja Masala with Roomali Roti, I promise."

"Sounds… intriguing," Will allowed, looking at him for a long moment before nodding, slow and almost pondering. "Alright. I'll be there."

"Excellent."

 

***

 

The dinner party came in a flurry of preparations and hunting, invitations being sent and accepted. With the party came Will Graham.

He arrived with a companion, a man his age and rather- unconventionally attired. No leather, not even in his belt or shoes, everything natural, in earthen tones, eye-catching in its texture and formality combined.

"Max Schultz," he introduced himself. He spoke with a faint Southern accent, smiled easily and stood unmistakably close to Will Graham.

Hannibal smiled back, carefully welcoming.

"Welcome. Please, come in."

His duties as the host kept him away for the brief time before dinner, welcoming new arrivals and circulating through the herd, making sure everyone had a drink and a conversational partner. He doubly congratulated himself on his table seating, having placed Will Graham and his companion at his left hand, close enough for conversation.

Before the meal's end, he learned that Max Schultz was a designer, though he dabbled in other artistic enterprises, that he came from a big family and grew up amongst the traditions and beauty only old money afforded, and that he adored his partner without being able to entirely comprehend him. Of Will Graham, he learned only that he was uncomfortable in the spotlight and graceful with his evasions and subtle manipulations.

The after-dinner drinks yielded better results.

"I must congratulate you, Mr Graham," he cornered the man in a slightly shadowy corner, where he had slowly migrated.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" Will Graham smiled without looking at Hannibal. He seemed to observe the artwork and the people uniformly, with the same removed look in his eyes. "That was one hell of a show, Dr Lecter. And a fine dinner, besides."

"Thank you. But I was referring to your own performance."

"Oh?"

"You play the part of a shy, retiring artist very well."

That earned him a look, a moment of eye-contact.

"I _am_ a shy, retiring artist."

"Perhaps," he allowed, smiling just a bit. "Tell me, did you choose Mr Shultz as your companion because of the ease of turning any attention to him, or were there other considerations?"

"I chose Max for a number of reasons," Will Graham replied after a moment, half-turning to face Hannibal. The shadows enhanced his appearance, highlighting the gentle slope of his nose, the delicate bone structure of his face. He smelled less of nerves and more of other people. Still no cologne. At least, not any of his own.

"Then perhaps he is to be pitied. As the poets say, a genuine affection is not a choice at all. Rather, it is a lack of a choice, the total surrender of reason."

"Unavoidable and inescapable, like a disease? A black death of the heart?" Will Graham quirked an eyebrow and took a sip of his drink. He drank whiskey rather than wine, unapologetic in his less refined preference. "Some would say exactly the opposite. That knowing a person fully, completely, and accepting them in all their splendour and wickedness, choosing to be with them… Some would say that is the definition of love."

"And does Mr Shultz know you fully?"

Will swallowed, looked away, into the mingling crowd.

"He tries. He does his best, and he does not look away. That's more than most could say," Will moved away, slowly, the tilt of his head inviting Hannibal to follow. He did.

"Is there anything in you that would cause others to look away, Will?" he wondered. "In fear or in reverence?"

"There's something in all of us that would make others uneasy. That's why we wear masks and costumes, why we engage in small-talk and throw ostentatious dinner parties."

They stopped by a small replica of the Michelangelo's _Awaking slave,_ powerful in its sharp lines and defining shadows. Hannibal kept silent, content to observe Will, study him studying the sculpture.

"You are uniquely qualified to judge the others' masks, Will," he allowed. "When did you start creating yours?"

"Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, Hannibal? You shouldn't," Will smiled, a small and edgy thing. "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."

"I very much doubt that."

"Will! There you are."

Max Schultz appeared next to them, almost puppyish in his enthusiasm. He put a careless hand on Will's back. Hannibal watched Will lean into it, smile, expression turning fond and vague.

"Are you okay? I've been looking for you, Flora has some amazing ideas for a new project, I thought- But I'm sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting? Are you alright? Was anyone bothering you too much?"

"I'm fine. Dr Lecter is most apt at keeping the masses away," Will murmured, head turning slightly in Hannibal's direction, a quick flash of eyes to catch his reaction.

He carefully gave none.

"I always strive to provide my dinner guests with whatever they may need," he nodded back. "Be that a full belly or a spot of shadows."

"Were you talking about cooking? Will makes the most amazing fish, from catch all the way to the plate. Through it's nothing as- elaborate as your own meals, Dr Lecter."

"We were talking about masks," he replies, eyes on Will Graham, all but tucked into his partner's side. "But it does not surprise me that you are a fisherman, Mr Graham."

"Do I still smell of fish guts?"

"Not at all. But the fisherman understands the desire, knows how to tempt and perform. How to lure a prey to its detriment," he smiled and raised his wine glass in a subtle toast, his eyes flickering to Max Schultz for the merest moment.

Will caught the movement and smiled back, bearing his teeth. No trace of the vague expression anywhere on his face.

"A fisherman also knows when it's better to release a catch back into a river. Some fish are poisonous."

"Yet the Japanese had been eating fugu for centuries. Even a malicious catch can be turned into a feast by a skilled enough hand."

"One first has to catch the intended prey. Some hands are more suited to butchery than to any more- delicate pursuits."

Hannibal smiled.

"It is an interesting train of thoughts, but I'm afraid I have monopolised you long enough. Mr Schultz looks ready to kidnap you, and I must see to my guests. Perhaps we might continue this conversation some other time?" he nodded affably, letting his eyes include Mr Schultz in the conversation now that he could be of use. "I'd love to have you both over for dinner."

Tellingly, through the enthusiasm brightened Mr Schultz's visage, he looked back at Will for a decision.

"Perhaps," the composer allowed, eyes skipping away, back to the party. "I don't find you that interesting."

What a cruel, manipulative boy. Delightful.

"You will."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot but, well. I'm having too much fun with it. And your response was very encouraging, so here's another chapter. No idea when the next will be up, but I'll do my best.
> 
> All the mistakes are my own. If anyone in this fandom would be willing to beta-read this for me, I'd be delighted.

The next few weeks were spent gathering information and planting the seeds.

The Internet disappointed; in the age where most displayed the most minute details of their tedious lives, Will Graham had almost no Internet presence. His Wikipedia page was short and bare, his Facebook and Twitter obviously maintained by some media specialist. A few journalists had attempted to cast him in a self-made-man narrative, without much success. A shy, retiring artist, Hannibal mused. Indeed.

The upper circles of Baltimore society had proven just as useless.

"He's undeniably talented, though I have to wonder at his subject choice."

"Classic is timeless."

"Classic is trite."

"One can hardly call _him_ trite. He's quite a conversationalist if you can get him to relax and actually say anything. He's so timid, poor dear."

"I've found him rather off-putting. Too proud to leave his ivory tower and interact with mere mortals."

"Ivory tower? Rather a shack in the woods. The man has an unfortunate tendency to cling to his- hm, humble roots."

"No appreciation for the finer things in life."

Indeed.

As is usual in life, enlightenment came from an unexpected source.

"Will mentioned you threw a dinner party the weekend before last. And you didn't invite me. I'm feeling terribly excluded, I must admit," Alana smiled at him over the carrots she was dicing.

He allowed himself a surprised blink, hands stilling momently.

"It was the week of your conference in Atlanta. You know that I'm always glad to see you at my table," he replied, returning to carefully cutting the slices of meat. The smell of cayenne pepper and herbal marinade mixed with the faintest tang of blood.

"If I had known you were organising a dinner party, I would've stayed."

"Would you really?"

"No," she admitted with a fond shake of her head. "But I'd have been tempted to."

"Then perhaps it was for the best that you did not know. I wouldn’t want to lead you into temptation," he smiled, pleased with the freshness and quality of the pig's shoulder, with the smooth movements of the knife. "It was a rather impulsive decision on my part,"

"Impulsive isn’t the world I usually associate with you."

"A life lived without a hint of spontaneity would be lost to a grey fog. I see I shall have to thank your friend, for saving me from becoming utterly boring."

"Hey, boring is another world that doesn’t really stick to you. And I don't know if I would call Will and myself friends."

There was a deliberate lightness in Alana's tone. He glanced up from arranging the cuts on the tray, then deliberately finished his task. Washed and dried his hands, came closer. Offered another bottle of beer and a silent support.

He didn’t have to wait long.

"Will is a very private person," Alana said, very obviously keeping her eyes focused on the arduous task of mincing the garlic. "Very good at maintaining his boundaries. And not very fond of psychiatrists."

"Befriending a former patient can be challenging."

"Oh no, he was never my patient. We met through the You Can Play foundation."

Curious. Hannibal was peripherally aware of Alana's involvement with the foundation but had never questioned her, never expressed the interest beyond that expected from a friend. He had thought a charity that arranged music lessons for the underprivileged children with mental conditions an admirable, but somewhat less interesting conversation topic than her consulting work with the FBI.

Apparently, he had been too hasty.

"Is he on the Board of Directors with you?"

"No, he's- Well. He's one of the first beneficiaries, and, arguably, the most successful one. But he still helps out, especially with getting new sponsors. He's very passionate about music. Music and dogs," she corrected herself, a small smile lurking behind the curtain of her hair. "He must have half a dozen of them by now."

"I thought you didn't like huntsmen."

"He- no, he doesn't breed hunting dogs. He rescues strays," Alana placed the finely minced garlic in the waiting small bowl and looked up at him, waiting for further instructions. There was a faint blush on her cheeks.

He passed her a celery to slice and migrated back to his side of the kitchen island. The sauce required his attention.

"It is a rare soul that could resist your charm," he proded lightly.

"He's…  not shy, rather… He's very conscious of his boundaries. And good at defending them."

"Have you mounted an attack?"

"I tried not to, but-" she shrugged. "You know me."

"You got curious?"

"I started poking where I wasn't invited. He tolerated it the first few times, but, well. Eventually, he poked back."

Alana's tone was deliberately casual, her shoulders very still. He smiled and made sure she could hear the smile, the warmth, in his words.

"I cannot imagine you not being able to deal with any retaliation," he said lightly, half-turned to the fridge. Allowing her an illusion of safety.

"Will is very insightful. Knows just which sore spot to prob."

"Which wound to reopen?"

"When necessary."

"And you still seek his friendship?"

"I'm friends with you, aren’t I?" she softened her remark with a smile, hands nimble on the cutting board. "Having a mind sharp enough to cut is not a crime. And it did teach me to respect his boundaries."

"Sometimes we create walls merely to see who is devoted enough to climb them."

He observed her momentary hesitation, noted the angle of her head.

"How did _you_ meet Will? I'd have thought that musicals were beneath you."

"I appreciate art in its many forms."

"Provided that it's good art?"

He smiled and took a sip of his wine. Enjoyed the bouquet, observed the light deepening the golden colour.

"He's providing to be rather reticent, but perhaps I should invite Will to our next dinner. He's sure to accept, if only for your company. Then we can have a bracing conversation about art."

Among other topics.

 

***

 

As luck would have it, the next time he saw Will was not during any society function, but at the farmers market.

It was not the one he usually visited, but a busted pipe and resulting renovation forced him to seek a temporary replacement. The market he had eventually chosen was very well stocked, localised on the outskirts of Baltimore and, apparently, catering to a more colourful crowd than his previous haunt.

Amid young hipsters, artists and those merely aspiring to the title, he spotted the curly hair and broad shoulders of his latest- interest.

"Will."

Will stopped, hand frozen, hovering above the succulent apples. A second of absolute stillness. Then he let it fall away, straightened. Turned.

"Hannibal."

His eyes seemed lighter, closer to grey in the morning light. Almost lucent.

Hannibal smiled, took a step closer. Picked up an apple and observed it critically.

"This is an unexpected pleasure. With you avoiding my dinner invitations, I had feared you were unwell. Or perhaps just not a fan of good cuisine."

He glanced up, pleased to see no guilty, no embarrassment on younger man's face. He nodded slightly and held out his hand, presenting the gleaming red apple.

"I'm glad to see that wasn't the cause."

Will looked at him for a moment, informal in his thick sweater and dark jacket. He made no move to accept Hannibal's offering.

"Maybe I'm just not a fan of the company?"

"Alana will be crushed to hear that. She was looking forward to seeing you again."

Will's eyes flickered to the apple.

"Apples make a poor bait."

"No bait. No hook hidden in it, I promise."

Slowly, Will reached out and took the fruit. His hand was warm and rough against Hannibal's skin.

He looked down, observed the red rind, brought it up to his face. Looked straight at Hannibal and raised his brow. Didn't bite down.

"The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat."

Lips twisting in a smirk, he lowered his hand, absently putting the apple in his bag.

Hannibal smiled back.

"I hardly seek your damnation. Merely hope for a pleasant dinner conversation to dispel the monotony."

"Yes," Will muttered, head canted, dark curls falling against his brow. "Residing on the very top of the pecking order must make one bored. And lonely."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Does the invitation include Max?"

"Of course. Your friend is more than welcome at my table."

"My partner will be glad to hear that."

They looked at each other, quiet in the morning bustle.

"I shall see you this Saturday, then. Let us say, six o'clock?"

"Yes."

So curt. Irritation or inherent gruffness? Surely not fear. Not with the barest glint of teeth visible between Will's lips.

"Any requests? Food allergies?"

"No- yes. A request," Will responded slowly, taking a minuscule step closer. Under the smell of dog and smoke lurked something deeper, sharper. "From me. If you're up for a challenge?"

"Always."

"A vegetarian meal. No meat, no fish, no seafood."

Hannibal controlled his expression, but Will still bit on his lip, eyes drinking Hannibal's vexation. Delighted to be its cause.

"Do you have any ethical objection to carnivorous diet?"

"None whatsoever," there it was, that bitten off smile breaking free. "But if you're looking to break the monotony, let's break it properly, at its spine. A change is good for the soul."

"Of course," he conceded with a graceful dip of his head. "I look forward to having you both for dinner."

"I bet you are."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to my beta, Princessleia9977. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> In case any of you are wondering, Will's musical is very heavily influenced by "Dracula, the Musical" by Frank Wildhorn, Don Black and Christopher Hampton. You can find the studio recording on YT. Go and listen to it, seriously, it's surprisingly good for this kind of a story. :)

A vegetarian dinner, for a man with no ethical objection to consuming flesh. Interesting.

"I have to thank you, Will," he raised his wine glass in a toast, his mouth softening in an honest appreciation. "It was a refreshing change, preparing an adequate meal with no animal protein."

"More than adequate, Dr Lecter, it's simply divine. And so elegantly presented," Max Shultz injected yet again, his smile open and genuine. His defensive meddling appeared to be habitual. A fact of nature, a law set into stone: Will Graham had no wish to speak with the adoring public, so Max Shultz would do so in his stead.

Being grouped with the masses chafed.

"Hannibal is nothing if not an aesthete," Alana said, the ambient light of the candles playing along her bared arms in a most delightful way.

"Yes, the aesthete or the undertaker. The antlers and the mice skulls in the centrepiece kind of give that away," Will Graham remarked softly, eyes on his plate.

Hannibal looked at him, quiet and prickly, splendid in a dark blue suit and pointed with his impeccable manners. What mystery were all those thorns protecting, what dark, tender centre?

"Beauty and death are often intimately connected," he said, a delicate. "Both have a way of revealing our inner natures."

"A peeping Tom?"

"An apple offered and accepted freely" he smiled at the flash of flame upon Will's fork, a fleeting hesitation.

"A damnation?"

"I like to think about it as an enlightenment. Having one's eyes opened, knowing good and evil. Being as gods in our self-knowledge. Is that not worth a bit of pain?"

That earned him a long, searching look. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Max Shultz shifting anxiously, mouth already opening to interfere-

"I know exactly who I am," Will said, leaning back in his chair, shoulders square and wide. Powerful in his certainty.

"Then you are to be envied," Hannibal replied. "How come you by this knowledge if you pardon the curiosity?"

"How does anyone come by anything worth having? By pain and trial."

"And yet you are glad for that awareness."

"I'm glad for the clarity, the… the quiet sense of power it has afforded me."

"Then I believe my point is made."

Silence descended, sharp and awkward. Hannibal gloried in Will's clenched jaw, in his white-fingered grip upon cutlery.

"And how are you enjoying your recent success, Will?" Alana hastily injected, a kind, knowing smile dancing along her lips. "Is the fame and fortune treating you well?"

"You know very well I could do without either," the composer replied with a wry headshake.

There was a noticeable fondness in the way he responded to Alana, to her careful teasing and long glances. Not necessary a sexual response, but not far from it, either.

"You deserve it," Max Shultz said, reaching out and touching his partner's hand, his wrist. The touch lingered.

"I'd rather have my privacy."

"Public scrutiny is an inescapable price of succeeding in your profession," Hannibal noted. "One that many lament, but none enough to abandon their vocation."

"Of course not," Will Graham parried, calmer now, half-lidded eyes straying to the centrepiece. "Unfortunately, all art requires an audience. It cannot exist in a void."

"People cannot exist in a void," Alana butted in gently. "We are predisposed to seek connections, to form bonds and communities."

"Not when the communities in question are _fan_ communities," Max Shultz's shudder wouldn't be out of place on a theatre stage. "They are necessary, I grant you, but the nerve of them! They have no respect for others' privacy, always hunting us for a picture, an autograph, a quote- Or even worse."

"Oh?"

"Yes, they-"

"Some of them," Will interrupted quietly.

"Some of them have the f- the gall to demand answers _,_ explanations _,_ to suggest ways to _improve_ \- They know nothing about structure, about narration, about- A few of them cornered us just the other day and _insisted on_ Will explaining the changes he made in his musical, like they had any right-"

"Were you alright? Will?" Alana asked, a soft urgency in her tone, hand moving infinitesimally across the table.

"It's not the first time I've been besieged by noisy people. I'm fine."

"You shouldn’t have to be fine, to deal with them at all," Max Shultz insisted, all protective outrage and gentle eyes. A golden retriever roused to fury, intent on guarding its flock.

Hannibal bit back a smile.

"Shy, retiring artists should be sheltered from noisy crowds," he agreed calmly. "They are, as a rule, quite delicate."

That earned him a burning look, a twitch of lips.

"Delicate like a teacup?" Will probed, a strange look stealing over his features. "A fine china, easily shattered?"

"Even diamonds, hard and cold as they are, are vulnerable to shattering," Hannibal allowed a smile to surface, raised his wineglass in a toast, a bait. "And I do not believe that you could be ever called cold, Will."

What would happen to Will Graham, should he shatter, Hannibal wondered as the conversation shifted. Would he break cleanly, along joints and lines of musculature, ready to be plated? Or would he fight back? What darkness would shine through the cracks?

Over after-dinner drinks, with Max Shultz and Alana occupied with conversation, Hannibal strolled casually away, towards the dark patio doors, far from the firelight and distraction. The blackness outside reflected the golden glow of the life within.

"Like a belly of the beast," Will Graham spoke from beside him.

Hannibal turned slight to look at him, pleased. The composer kept his own eyes forward, tracing the warm reflections in the glass.

"What a unique mind you have, Will. What an imagination," Hannibal mused, a trace of admiration leaking through.

"Comes with being an artist."

"Does it? Or did you become an artist to manage your imagination? To give voice to the unmentionable, the wicked pictures hunting your dreams?"

He observed Will, saw his momentary hesitation, saw his eyes straying from the black mirrors down, towards the drink in his hand. An aged single malt chosen especially for this evening, its rich aroma complementing Will's own scent.

An intriguing creature spotted, subtly hunted and brought to his home, teeth bared but not biting, intrigued right back. Eyes bright and a belly full of his cooking. Hannibal felt a twist of satisfaction, warm and heady.

"My dreams," Will spoke slowly, careful with his choice of words, "are often not tasty. Art is one way of making them more- palatable."

"Palatable like a porridge, bland and unoffensive? I hope not," Hannibal needled. "I wouldn't think so, given your recent brave deviation from the tired classic, the brilliant twist at the end of your story… Or is it exactly that, an attempt to temper, to auto-censure your darker impulses?"

"What makes you think that?" Will asked, eyes stubbornly on his drink. The dark curls shifted, too short to successfully obscure his face.

Hannibal hummed softly, the stray notes lingering in the charged air between them.

"You have created a great story arch for your monster, given him an agency and character development," he mused almost idly, drinking in every change, every minute twitch of that pale face. "Yet in the finale, having achieved all his objectives, having his love finally reciprocated… He stumbles. He does not share his immortal gift, does not consummate their love. He chooses death. Tell me," he lowered his voice, leaned just a bit closer. "Was that the intended ending? Or did you desire for the monster to triumph, and, scared of that desire, had to temper it into something socially acceptable?"

He delighted in the lengthy silence, in the open, raw look Will gave him.

"There was no censorship on my part," Will eventually replied, eyes growing heavy and hooded once more. "The ending is exactly as it was supposed to be."

"As you planned?"

"You cannot plan an ending. You set things in motion and you arrange for appropriate circumstance, but the ending is out of your hands."

"Why this ending, then? Why death, in this hour of victory?" he asked, truly fascinated.

"Would it be a victory, though?" Will asked back, eyes flashing up, ice-blue and defiant. "As you've said, he's developed, changed, through the story, through his love. What had started as a mere hunt, a selfish desire, has evolved into something- something _true_. Having changed so, how could he still hurt his lover? How could he condemn her to his darkness?"

"Would it be a condemnation? Or an elevation?" Hannibal mused, his voice a low murmur in the intimate space between them. "Do you not believe that even certain dark things deserve to be loved?"

"In secret, between the shadow and the soul? No," Will half-smiled, sly and wicked and utterly unapologetic. Utterly alive. "No, I don't believe that there is any correlation between what we deserve and what we get."

What a savage, cunning boy. What a fascinating mind. Hannibal wanted to gather it in his hands, feel it slip between his fingers, soft and cool.

"Many of my patients would cast themselves as the monster of your narrative. They believe they are twisted, wrong, ugly. Unworthy of love. Would you deny them?" he sighed, low and pleased. "How cruel you are."

"There is, I believe, a difference," Will said, soft and careful like a dancer on a narrow bridge, "between twisted and monstrous, between ugly and evil. We are none of us pure, tarnished by everyday tear and wear. But to call someone monstrous…" he trailed off, shaking his head, eyes lost in some faraway plane.

"Then it's only the monster that must be denied love, in your mind?"

"In my mind, where there is love… True love, not a mere lust, or hunger, or- or coveting, grasping and selfish, but _love_ … Where there is love, there can be no darkness. There is no place left for darkness."

Hannibal stared. For an endless moment, suspended in the golden hush and shielded by the dark of the night, he stood and drank in the luminous being in front of him.

"And so he had to die," he murmured, eyes and tone heavy, low. "To both protect his lover and to prove his devotion. What a wonderful, fairy-tale pure conclusion you have painted, Will."

"Will!"

They both winced, ripped away from their shared shadow, the bubble of closeness broken, voices intruding, vulgar and bold and-

Hannibal took a deep breath. Posed a small smile on his mouth and turned away, towards his guests, polite and attentive once more.

"I'm sorry, I got catch up with our conversation," Max Shultz exclaimed, coming closer, laying a careless hand on Will's back, Alana only a step behind. "Do you know that Alana has never been to Georgia? Knows nothing about good southern movies. Can you believe that?"

Hannibal was observing Will, his hasty step back, his hard swallow and averted eyes. He noted the shaky inhale and felt a dark delight rush through his veins, twist in his guts, low and primal.

"… Yes- No, no I cannot believe it," Will muttered, turning, half-hiding in his partner's side. "How could you not have been to Georgia? It's a stone throw's away."

"There was just never any opportunity to go," Alana smiled, cheeks rosy from firelight and alcohol. "And I don't do that great in high temperatures."

The conversation carried on, friendly and intelligent, diverse and playful. Utterly mundane. Hannibal played his part, listened and replied and directed, warm and courteous, his human veil firmly in place. Yet…

Yet, even when his lips smiled and his hands topped up the wineglasses, when he was accepting goodbyes and wishing his guests a safe return home… When he was tiding up, handwashing crystal and rearranging the chairs, wiping down the tables and dousing the fire…

Yet, all this time, in the dark centre of him, he was busy observing Will, recalling their conversation. Watching Will's face come alive, following his reasoning, Will's vision bursting into existence between one word and another, sharp and magnificent in its Old Testament cruelty.

He was busy coveting.


End file.
